


a god-awful small affair

by nightwideopen



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Avengers Tower, Bad Humor, Bingo, Clint Barton Bingo 2019, Fluff, Identity Porn, M/M, Pining, Sebastian Stan is a dork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 09:33:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18808477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightwideopen/pseuds/nightwideopen
Summary: Clint sobers a little bit, straightening up and squinting into the dim light at the silhouette that’s approaching him and suddenly he’s nose to nose with Sebastian fucking Stan and his legs are going to turn to jelly, he swears.





	a god-awful small affair

**Author's Note:**

> does this count as winterhawk?
> 
> i have to be honest... i didn't mean to write this 
> 
> **Square filled: Pining**
> 
> Title from Life on Mars? by David Bowie

The thing is… the thing is that Clint is just a kid. He’s a stupid, gangly, farm-grown kid that can do a few tricks with a bow and arrow and apparently that’s enough for him to get paid the same as an Olympic- level athlete. He gets paid by S.H.I.E.L.D. and by Tony and by the fucking government of the United States just for getting out of bed in the morning and _doing the right thing_. He’s just helping people. Everyone should do that. He shouldn’t get paid extra for something he’d be doing either way. But since Clint does it with a stick and string and wears a silly costume  he’s entitled to more money a year than the goddamn President. 

And Clint really hates these stupid charity galas. Tony hosts them more often than anyone should and Clint’s always been content to donate his fair share with relative anonymity – a.k.a without actually having to show up and talk to rich snobs who have no idea what it feels like to struggle because of an empty wallet. People who have never counted change to buy food or wondered where they were going to sleep for the night. They tell him that money doesn’t buy happiness, but then they’re quick to shut their pockets when he points out that there are plenty of people in need of it just to get by. Clint hates dressing up as someone he’s not and talking to people that never would’ve given him a second glance before he became some hotshot Avenger. 

He was a kid once: a stupid, poor, starving kid so desperate to survive that he took a job at a carnival doing tricks – nearly killed him, more times than he could count.

Now, he might be  taller and have more money –  but inside, he’s still that kid.

And he can’t stand these charity galas.

But Tony started bitching about him showing his face. Then Tony got Pepper and Maria and _Fury_ to bitch at him about it as well. And eventually he caved, because that’s what Clint Barton does. He’s a people-pleaser at heart. Plus, Natasha threatened him with bodily harm if he didn’t _get his ass to a charity gala and show those assholes the face of someone who really cares about making a difference because he actually worked hard to get where he is and doesn’t just do it for the good publicity._ It was touching and scary at the same time. 

So he suited up – the _hey Steve, can you tie my tie?_ kind – and now he’s here, watching a room of people he loathes sip cocktails and cherry pick the charities they want to give point-zero-two-percent of their net worth to. 

Clint is able to barely tolerate this for about forty five minutes. Angrily sipping his way through several margaritas helps. Then he sees red and slams his drink onto the bar. He storms over to the first table – the one set up by elevator – and gets out his checkbook. It’s a charity that works to create accessibility for local public schools. He makes sure to tack on as many zeroes as he can fit in the stupid tiny box.

He does this for each and every table in the room.

Sure, Clint is making a scene, and the room is eerily quiet even with the tinkling sound of piano music still playing dreamily in one corner of the room. It’s directly juxtaposed by his, frankly, violent charity. Surely it’s obvious how much he’s giving away by the reactions of the ambassadors at the tables. He’s faced with several audible gasps, and a lot of gobsmacked expressions. One woman _actually_ starts to cry. 

But he doesn’t _care_ how petty he’s being about it. He wants to _help_. That’s all he ever wants to do, every time he picks up his bow and puts on that uniform and risks his life to _protect_. He’s just being a decent a person. It’s the bare minimum. It’s the _least_ he can do in his position.

When he gets to the last table he’s pretty sure he’s over-drafted his bank account but Clint. Just. Doesn’t. Care.

He makes sure that everyone’s looking at him when he makes his grand sweep of the room. “ _That’s_ how you make a difference you stingy pricks.”

Maybe he’s a little drunk, too. 

Thankfully no one escorts him out – he’s an _Avenger_ – and several people scurry past him towards whichever table is closest. Others give him scornful looks as he makes his way down the hall towards  a room he can hopefully pass out in. This is the worst floor to be drunk and angry on, there aren’t any _beds_. 

“ _Jarvis_ ,” Clint whines, dramatic and needy, “I needa lie down.”

“There is a room with a futon to your left, Agent Barton.”

“Not an agent anymore,” he corrects as he stomps a little further down the hall. Though, maybe he’s dragging his feet now. That last margarita really took its time, huh? 

“You’ve passed the room, Mr. Barton.”

When Clint angrily spins on the spot, he’s startled by a shadow walking towards him. He shouts. He can’t help it, he’s drunk and tired and maybe broke. 

“Don’t sneak up on me. I used to be a spy. It’s bad for my reputation.”

“Oh. Sorry. I was just wondering if you needed any help? I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Now _that’s_ a voice that could put Clint straight into a twelve hour coma. But it’s also a voice that Clint could recognize on a fuzzy TV playing in a room down the hall with the volume number on like… seven. He sobers a little bit, straightening up and squinting into the dim light at the silhouette that's approaching him. It gets close enough for him to see before he can confirm his suspicions in his own time. Though, it’s less suspicion and more _please don’t be who I think it is_.

But then he’s nose to nose with Sebastian _fucking_ Stan and his legs are going to turn to jelly, he swears. He’s in a black suit and a black shirt with a black tie and… is Clint’s brain supposed to _not_ short-circuit?

“Uh.”

Sebastian’s staring him right in the eye with this confused look on his face, eyebrows drawn and mouth turned down. It’s all Clint can do to not fall into him when his vision starts to swim. Since when is he such a lightweight? Since when is his celebrity crush standing in front of him in an all-black suit (black shirt _and_ tie, Jesus) with a champagne flute in his hand, hair perfectly styled and asking him something?

What the hell is he asking?

“Sorry, what?” Clint asks dumbly. He can blame it on being deaf, if Sebastian asks.

“Do you need help? I can get you a ride home – an Uber or something if you need one.”

“I live here.”

“Oh.” Sebastian’s frown deepens. God, he’s so sweet. And so dumb. Doesn’t he know Clint’s an Avenger? “Right. Sorry. I’ll just… Goodnight.”

Sebastian is barely half a step away when Clint _yells_ like an _idiot_ , “Wait!” He’s pretty sure half the party hears it. “You can… Can you walk me to my room? It’s… far and I’m kinda drunk and I don’t wanna fall asleep in the elevator. It’s hell on my neck.”

“You’ve fallen asleep in the elevator before?”

And Sebastian’s not frowning anymore, which Clint finds absolutely delightful. He’s smirking now, and it’s playful, and Clint still might throw up so he’s not going to get ahead of himself here. All he has to do is make it to his room, tell Sebastian how grateful he is, tell him how good he was in _The Martian_. Maybe get his number. That’d be awesome. 

“... No,” he says belatedly. Clint doesn’t remember the question.

“Okay.”

The elevator door _swoosh_ es open as soon as they get to it because Jarvis is the best. Clint leans his head on the wall, forever grateful that the smoothness of the ride doesn’t threaten to flip his stomach inside out. He doesn’t think he’s going to fall over, but he might fall asleep, and after a minute he remembers that he’s not alone. But that’s mostly because Sebastian’s voice jolts him back to full wakefulness.

“That was really great what you did back there.” He grimaces when Clint jumps. “Sorry.”

“Quit apologizing,” Clint mumbles. “Anyone with half a conscience would do the same thing. All those snobby assholes just _suck_.”

Sebastian laughs. It’s the best sound in the whole world and Clint would very much like to make him do that again, please. Forty-seven more thoughts pass through Clint’s brain in varying degrees of thirsting over this wonderfully dorky handsome man helping him get home safely because he was stumbling around like a drunk, broke idiot. But the one that loops back around is his _laugh_. It’s such a… soft thought. It’s affection, it’s _fond_. He’s got a motherfucking _crush_. Not a celebrity crush. A crush-crush. This is why no one ever let him use his powers of persuasion to get Sebastian’s phone number.

Clint is staring at Sebastian and Sebastian is staring back with a hint of a smile on his face. Just a hint. And Clint _knows_ the kind of control he has over his face. He wants Clint to see his smile. Clint hopes that’s a good thing.

“Yeah, they kind of do.” Sebastian agrees.

Then the elevator door opens on Clint’s floor and suddenly he’s stumbling forward. He overcompensates. Maybe his head got bigger and heavier because suddenly the floor is coming up real fast. Clint reaches his hands out to catch himself but something beats him to the punch; a miracle in the form of strong hands on his waist keeps him from smashing his face on the marble floor. 

“Wow,” Clint says, blinking. “Thanks.”

“Any time, pal.”

Sebastian keeps his hands on Clint as he walks them to the kitchen. Clint doesn’t say that his bedroom’s the other way. Sebastian doesn’t ask. He wonders how long he can put off Sebastian leaving. Clint slides into a seat at the kitchen island, waving Sebastian over to sit beside him. If there’s one thing Clint is good at, it’s pretending to be calm in a stressful situation. He needs caffeine first, and the coffee machine starts buzzing just as he thinks it.

“Oh, are you a mind reader now, Jarvis?”

“No, Mr. Barton, you are simply a creature of arduous habit.”

Sebastian laughs again. Clint’s heart stutters. He quickly shuffles away to grab a mug. Should he grab two? He’s being really stupid about this, but he’s still determined to not let it show.

“Coffee?”

“Um…” Sebastian tilts his head as his mouth drops open. He looks so confused and it’s even more adorable in person. It’s _just_ coffee. The answer should always be yes. “Yeah, why not?” And then he smiles, bright and sure.

“Awesome.”

Clint busies himself with pouring the coffee devastatingly slow into the biggest mugs he can find. He doesn’t trust himself not to do something stupid like _whimper_ if he remains face to face with that smile. But it turns out fine, because apparently Clint’s back doesn’t offend Sebastian, and he keeps talking.

“You don’t go to these galas often, do you?”

Clint shakes his head, wondering if he should offer milk and sugar. He probably doesn’t have milk and sugar. What is he, Starbucks? Black coffee is the only way to go.

“No. I only went because Nat wanted me to teach them a lesson. She probably knew I’d throw a fit like that.”

There’s nothing left to procrastinate so he makes his way back over to the island, sitting back down next to Sebastian. Their knees press together and that’s really not good for Clint’s health. Sebastian’s really warm.

“I get it.” Sebastian sips at the coffee and doesn’t react to the bitterness. “You’re a really good person,” he continues, off-topic and unprompted.

It blindsides Clint. He burns his mouth on his coffee. “Huh?” he sputters.

“You’re a good person,” Sebastian repeats, unfazed. He knocks his knee more purposefully against Clint’s. Was that on purpose? Clint thinks it was on purpose. He pushes back with his own knee.

“I’m a _decent_ person,” he corrects. “Doing the bare minimum that anyone in my position should do.”

Sebastian gets that confused look on his face again. “You really have no idea, do you? _Hawkeye_.”

Huh, so he does know that Clint is an Avenger.

Clint bites. “About  _what_?”

Sebastian shakes his head, sets down his coffee on the countertop. He fixes Clint with a warm look that can’t be deciphered. There’s too much nuance in it, and while Natasha has the poker face of the century she’s not an actor like Sebastian is. She hasn’t been a spy in ages, hasn’t had to play a role for a living – the way Sebastian still does everyday – in a while. It’s made Clint rusty in how to read microexpressions, and it’s equal parts frustrating and exciting. Clint thinks Sebastian is going to tell Clint what he’s thinking, and now that Clint is somewhat back in his right mind and staring right at the person he’s been… essentially obsessed with for a long while now, his stomach flips the way it wanted to back in the elevator. 

Either it’s fate or really good meddling on Natasha’s part. 

“You’re so _good_ ,” Sebastian says again. “You help people everyday with no complaints, no regard for your own safety. You deserve everything you have, you know? It’s… it’s crazy that you can’t see that you don’t _have_ to do the things you do. It’s not a requirement of being privileged. But you treat it like one, because you’re inherently good and you don’t see things any other way. That’s amazing. Did you know that? Did you know that you’re amazing?”

“What the fuck?” Clint whispers incredulously. 

Sebastian smiles sadly at him with these big puppy eyes and Clint is sure he was done for before they even met but now he’s sitting here waxing poetic about Clint’s morality. If any of this is real, that is. Maybe Clint’s in a coma after braining himself on the floor and this is all a dream.

“I don’t…” Clint tries to find the words, but he can’t. He doesn’t know how to properly articulate his gratitude and confusion. Maybe he is a good person. Maybe it’s for selfish reasons. Maybe he’s cleaning up his conscience or maybe he just believes in doing good for the sake of it. Either way, Sebastian’s sentiment is genuine, and Clint didn’t realize how much that meant to him until now. “Thank you?”

Sebastian doesn’t respond so the only logical thing for Clint to do is lean forward, slow enough that Sebastian can definitely say something if he wants to. 

He doesn’t. 

So Clint keeps leaning, and leaning, and he’s going to fall over if Sebastian doesn’t meet him halfway so there’s just a moment of them staring stupidly at each other until he gets the hint.

And then Sebastian’s kissing him and he taste like Clint’s coffee and it’s the best thing since the pizza he had earlier. Sebastian shifts closer and grabs the lapels of Clint’s suit jacket, pulling him in. Clint’s really going to fall but he doesn’t care because this surpasses every half-baked fantasy Clint ever had. Sure, he thought it’d be good – but this is _so much better_ than good. So much better than his sleepy imagination. It’s soft but insistent and Clint’s messing up Sebastian’s hair to get him _closer closer closer._ Someone’s going to have to pry him off of Sebastian’s face, because he’s not going anywhere any time soon, except.

Except Sebastian’s pulling back. But it’s maybe okay because he’s smiling and _blushing_ and can he come back please? 

Clint pouts.

“Sorry,” Sebastian says, trying to fix his hair. He doesn’t look sorry.

“Don’t be.” Clint wants to elaborate but he does have _some_ dignity. “Thanks for walking me home.”

“My pleasure.” Sebastian reaches out and runs a thumb over Clint’s lips. Jesus Christ. “Really.”

Okay, _fine_ , he’ll confess. Clint sighs. “Been wanting that for a long while, y’know. Just never thought we’d get the chance to meet, so I could woo you.”

“Consider me woo’d.” Sebastian takes his hand back, looking everywhere but at Clint. “Though I have to admit… Same. Long while. Since you saved me from nearly getting hit by a bus.”

Bus? What bus? 

Clint is pretty sure his confusion is a dead giveaway, but Sebastian doesn’t make any move to explain. So Clint sorts through his gap-ridden memory bank for whatever the hell Sebastian is talking about. It takes a few minutes, but then it hits him.

There was a commotion in Union Square a few months ago, and one of the humanoid squids got away from the group and took off down 5th Avenue. But not the uptown way. No one else noticed so Clint had to make a mad dash past Strand and past the church and past a Starbucks that he thinks is closed now. He found himself in Soho and managed to pin down the aforementioned squid-human-thing and get an arrow through it before it squirted him with ink. And when he stood up he saw a handsome fellow on his phone about to walk headlong into oncoming traffic. So… he did the heroic thing – and then took off because, you know, humanoid squids.

“Oh, shit,” Clint says. “You were the oblivious handsome fellow.”

“And you were my savior in the form of an archer.”

Huh. “I guess I was.” He pokes Sebastian’s cheek. “Hey, you should totally give Jarvis your contact information so I can text you and we can do this in the back of a really fancy restaurant.”

Sebastian nods, smiling soft and sweet. “I definitely will. On my way out. Not that I want to leave but–”

“It’s late. I’m still drunk. I probably won’t be able to stop kissing you if you don’t go.” Clint groans melodramatically. “Do you even know how good you look right now? Seriously. It’s kind of disgusting how great you look.”

“My sincerest apologies.”

Clint can’t stop looking at him, wondering how he got lucky enough to be subject to the impeccable manners of such a terribly sweet person. It could’ve been anyone that had found him, drunk and stupid and stumbling around in the dark. Clint actually does surge forward to kiss him this time, wondering how the hell they were walking around with dumb, distant crushes on each other and not making any move to meet. 

“We’re really dumb, did you know that?” Clint asks.

Sebastian nods. “My default state is confusion, so yes.”

He’s so dumb and perfect and Clint really wants him to stay but they _literally_ just met. Clint wants to know him for real, doesn’t want to act like a starstruck idiot that thinks he knows who Sebastian is already. So he’s not going to rush this. He’s going to savor it. He’s not going to be Clint Barton about this. 

So he walks Sebastian to the elevator and politely says goodnight and kisses him chastely. And even as he takes his itchy suit off and falls face first into his bed, he tries to stop smiling so wide. 

It doesn’t work.

But that’s okay.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/616clint).  
> This is my [Tumblr](https://nightwideopen.tumblr.com).  
> And here is a [shareable post](https://nightwideopen.tumblr.com/post/184837745874) for this fic.  
> Comments and kudos are beyond appreciated. Thank you for reading!


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